


You Get the Horns

by shoiman



Category: Dream SMP-Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF, mcyt
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood and Injury, Branding, Burning, Cigars, Cursed Tank Designs, Explosions, Fantastic Racism, Fire, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Minor Character Death, Past Abuse, Profanity, Suicide/Last Stand, War, Whipping, clay is a lying sack of fuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:22:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29903127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoiman/pseuds/shoiman
Summary: tl;dr Schlatt loreBased around the fictional war on the township of Conestoga, a comparatively advanced yet physically small city far, far away from the settlement that would become the Dream SMP.Also there's a torture scene and tank stuff.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	1. Shelling

Everyone could smell the black powder smoke rolling across no-mans-land, it stung the eyes and burned the nostrils and was most definitely bad for your health, as were most things in the trenches. It was a grim reminder of the vicious firefight that took place hours before.

A medical team ran past one soldier, cleaning his gun, carrying two other soldiers on a wheeled stretcher. They’d been hit with bullets, mines, barbed wire, practically everything the enemy could throw at them, and their injuries showed it. They were screaming.

The soldier continued cleaning his 6mm infantry rifle, ignoring the almost inhuman screams that bounced off of the trench walls and woke the lucky few who had gotten a wink of sleep.  
The metallic grinding sound was satisfying to him, it was one of the few constants of the trenches. 

That and the heat.

By god was it hot.

Every day was a humid one-hundred degrees, and the nights only got down to about eighty-five, so most soldiers were caked with a mixture of sweat and dirt that stained their gray clothing and clawed at their skin, hooking on like a permanent fixture. The soldier didn’t mind, he was born in a hot climate anyways, and finally re-assembled his gun and loaded the four-round magazine, holding the weapon by his side.

“Shloger, over here.” Someone shouted, just out of view from the man. He picked up his rifle and walked, well more like stumbled, towards whoever called to him.

It was Schlatt, a sight for sore eyes.

Schlatt, despite the poor conditions, always managed to lighten the mood. He was a kind soul, coming from an extremely rich family that could have easily paid his way out of the war, but he refused such an offer, calling it “cowardly”, which isn’t inaccurate.

“I heard you got transferred back, so the fellas and I decided to give you a little ‘welcome back’ gift.”  
They didn’t have to do all that, Shloger said to himself, grabbing the plate of hot, cured pork and buttered bread. In the trenches, it was a meal for kings. Or trench commanders, which are essentially the same thing.

“You guys honestly didn’t need to do this, thank you so much.”

“Well if you don’t want it i’ll be sure to take it off your hands.” Schlatt replied, eliciting a chuckle from the group and a friendly ‘fuck off’ from Shloger, who’s gnarled, bony hands began to work away at the meal.

“How’ve y’all been? It’s been a hot minute.” Shloger asked, looking up from his plate for a moment.

“Well, we ain’t dead yet so we’re in good headings.” A voice piped up from the back, coming from a man looking through a brass spyglass across the crater-ridden terrain.

It was the Major.

The Major.

Shloger attempted a salute as the man turned around, hard-pressed to not drop his precious plate of ham and bread.

“At ease you weird bastard, how’ve you been?”

The pair ran in for a big, rib cracking hug, the Major’s majestic mustache twitching slightly in the breeze. It really put into perspective just how much Shloger missed his old scouting group, squeezing Major Tobias Q. Lansing until it got hard for him to breathe.

Shloger’s deep country accent finally broke through. “Them muh-fuckers with engineering’ll work your gaht-damn ears off if you ain’t careful, but other’n that i’m doin’ pretty fine. How ‘bout yourself?”

“Same predicament, different people. Forward command’s been replaced with a bunch of quill-pushing nobodies who’ve never stepped foot here, really just move troops around on the eastern front to make it seem like they’ve got a head on their shoulders.”

“Ain’t the eastern front died down since ‘bout late April?”

“My point exactly.”

Schlatt piped in, munching on a boiled potato absently, “There’s a rumor around that engineering’s built some kind of mechanized trench-crosser, is there any merit to that or is that just a rumor?”

Shloger shifted slightly, setting his plate down on a low post and leaning up against the trench wall, almost sitting. “I worked on a project called Unstoppable, and what we were doin’ is takin’ those big engines outta those old powered gliders that didn’t do squat, and putin’ ‘em in some big metal box on continual tracks. Like a big, armored equipment tractor. They’re supposed to roll ‘em out for training tomorrah.” He said in a low voice.

“That ain’t even the best part, those big fuckin’ thangs have a cannon on ‘em, and are practically unkillable. We finally got somethin’ that can take on those goddamn zee-tee thangs.”

The group, at this point, had been listening intently to Shloger talk, both Lansing and Schlatt’s eyes widening at the thought of what sounded like something that could finally turn the tide of this god-forsaken battle.

Shloger spoke ominously, “They’re callin’ em the T1-GC, for Tank 1, Gun Carrier. They’re callin’ em tanks to confuse enemy agents and make them think we’re gettin water tanks delivered or some shit I don’t know I just designed the suspension.”

Despite Shloger’s outward appearance and poor grammar, he was extremely smart, and had a hand in designing many, many more weapons of war than he, or anyone for that matter, lets on. The group would have continued talking, but the sudden, quiet whizzing sound of incoming artillery fire forced them to stop and scatter.

“MORTAR! EVERYONE GET DOWN!” Lansing yelled, his commanding voice making its way through the trenches like a shockwave.

Then the actual shockwave hit.

When the mortar shells landed, they almost sounded like machine gun fire, something Shloger only had experience with as he was one of six people who had ever fired an automatic weapon of that caliber, but significantly more percussive and irregular.

Schlatt, Lansing, Shloger, and Davis (one of the soldiers from the group mentioned previously) hunkered down in a mortar shelter, which was a small underground space with a massive steel door from a ship closing off the outside world as the minutes ticked by, the shelter shaking and groaning with every blast from enemy mortar fire. This hadn’t happened before, enemy mortar fire hadn’t had enough range to hit their trenches.

“Those rat bastards advanced through the fog.” Schlatt muttered, peering out of the tiny glass window at the outside world, the massive explosions of dirt, muck, blood, and fire.

“Davis, telegraph forward command. Give them the situation run-down and an equipment request.” Lansing said, not turning away from the floor. He seemed ashamed.

Davis nodded, going to the back of the room and began dialing in the message to forward command, the large typewriter clicking away monotonously.

“Welcome back to the trenches, Shloger.” Schlatt chuckled, taking a seat on an ammunition crate.

“Shit’s no different since you left.” Davis said from the back, the inflection sounded almost like blame, like he himself had something to do with the artillery fire.

Shloger ignored the inflection, popping a cigar into his mouth and lighting the end with a match. Everything was back to normal for him; constant explosions, hectic day-to-day routines, a maximum of 4 hours of sleep… He almost enjoyed trench life. The four men sat quietly, waiting for the shelling to stop. Occasionally, a shell would hit close to them and cause the single, dim halogen light in the room sway and flicker, startling them.

Schlatt had had enough, and pulled a deck of playing cards out of his pack. They were technically illegal, as was gambling, but those rules weren’t often enforced.

“Poker?”

“Schlatt, you know I’m shit at poker, I don’t want you to wring me out of my money again.” Davis exclaimed, motioning into the air a sort-of twisting motion to imitate what Schlatt supposedly did to Davis financially.

He reluctantly played, and the four passed the time with a game. Schlatt won, of course.

“Swear on my mother this asshole’s cheatin.” Shloger muttered, throwing down a Jack and a 3 of hearts, which against Schlatt’s cards was puny at best.

Schlatt raked in the $120 that had been thrown onto the floor, laughing as he did so.

Schlatt was an odd specimen. His clothes always seemed a bit cleaner than everyone else’s, his demeanor a bit happier, his gun a bit shinier (which was to his detriment more than once), his horns unchipped, altogether a respectable looking man even at the worst of times.

Shloger was much different. He was around the same height, but his complexion was darker, his facial hair merely poorly-shaven stubble, his eyes permanently affixed in a squint, his face generally less attractive, and his hands...

Well.

His hands were abnormally large, and covered in scars from burns and cuts from working in hazardous conditions, and they were extremely bony.

Lansing was a war hero, with a mustache you’d expect to see on propaganda and a coat adorned with awards and medals from his service, and Davis was just another drafted grunt with sub-par academics and basic training. Cannon fodder, as some would say.

No matter their differences, they went together like four separate puzzle pieces.

\-----

It took the group a short while to realize that the shelling had finally ceased, but when they did, Shloger practically kicked the door down (no mean feat) and ran outside, fists pumping into the sky. There wasn’t exactly very much time to celebrate, however, because it was about that time in which the trench commander called all section 7 ¼ troops to the damaged, moldy Ordnance hall.

The Ordnance hall was a squat, two-story concrete structure, where the congregation of muddy, beat-down soldiers kicked up dust and other particles into the path of the blinding, dusty rays of the sun that shot through the cracked, square windows.

There weren’t any chairs, so the 7 ¼ section just stood in a large, shifting ball of people that muttered and milled around. Suddenly the metal door behind them clicked open, and then slammed shut with an echoing ‘bang’ that brought the meandering troop to attention.

Trench commander Wesley Ingerhaln, a corpulent man of both short stature and temper, accompanied Brigade General Herschel Curtis-Wright through the large building, around the statue-stiff group of soldiers, and to the front of the room.

“At ease.” Ingerhaln said, motioning to Curtis-Wright.

“Men, today our top scientists and engineers have brought about a machine that can turn the tide of this battle.” Curtis-Wright motioned for the maintenance personnel to open the bay door, and in it came.

It was enormous.

“This here is the T1 Gun Carriage. Capable of fifteen miles-an-hour, and a maximum endurance just north of three hours, it’s armed with a three-inch naval cannon at the top, and two .436 automatic rifles mounted coaxially. The armor is three-and-a-third inches thick at the front plates, and two-and-a-half down the sides. We’ve brought our naval prowess to land.”

There was an audible gasp as the machine’s armament was listed off, and a larger gasp and a cheer as another, even larger vehicle rolled in.

“Directly behind it is the mighty E6 Heavy Gun Carriage, armed with four three-inch guns and one seven-inch main artillery gun that can, in one fell swoop, lay waste to an entire line of enemy fortifications.”

“It’s a seven-and-a-quarter naval gun, sir.” A voice, most likely Shloger’s, from the middle of the group said quietly.

“Who in the hell said that? Do you think I don’t know my own god-damned machine?”

“Yeah.” Another voice said from the back, the group snickering.

“You can keep laughing all the way to the front, because it’s you who will be operating these.” The laughter ceased abruptly as Ingerhaln grabbed a clipboard and began listing off crew codes.

“Scouting quartets 19, 31, 33, 46, 47 and 56 will be in operation of the six operational T1 carriages, and quartet 26 will be in operation of the E6 Heavy carriage. Please step up to the front of the room for further instruction.”

The scouting groups walked to the front of the room, while the rest of the troops went back to their respective posts.

“I designed the goddamned E6 and I don’t even get a hand in operating it. Load ‘a bullshit.” Shloger muttered to Schlatt, both of whom were making their way back to the posts to regroup with Lansing.

“How’d it go?” He yelled from the heights of the scouting post.

“Not well, Shloger’s butthurt that he doesn’t get to test his own toy.” Davis yelled back, smiling.

“Cram it up your ass Davis. I worked for months on that project ‘n I don’t get a lick of credit. Fuckin’ beurocrats.” Shloger spat angrily, pointing a bony finger at Davis with conviction. “Your dumbass couldn’t tell a torsion bar from a stick of goddamn TNT you meat head.” Schlatt doubled over laughing, holding a cigar between his fingers.

“You two need to either drink or kiss.” Schlatt managed to say between maniacal cackles, still struggling to get air. The laughter died down after a while, and the group went back to their duties.


	2. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> schlatt lore schlatt lore

_“How DARE you barge into MY home and try to coerce my OWN SON to fight a war that we are NOT A PART OF.” The tall, bearded man bellowed, jabbing a meaty finger at the army recruiter._

_“You’re a registered resident of Conestoga, or one of it’s surrounding townships, are you not?” The recruiter asked flatly._

_“Yes but-” He stammered_

_“Then your son is within the age range required to join the armed forces. This folder will tell him everything he needs to know.” The recruiter stated before turning away from the doorway and walking back to his horse._

_“Hortch, honey, who was that?” A feminine voice called from the top of the stairs._

_“Nobody. Go back to bed.” He spat, slamming the folder down on the living room table._

_A tall man in a button-down shirt stood in the kitchen doorway, throwing on a coat._

_“And just where do you think you’re going, Jebediah?” The bearded man asked in an accusatory tone, almost blocking the doorway with his body._

_“Recruitment center.” He said quietly, fiddling with his tie and slicking back his brown hair._

_“Why in the hell are you going there? You don’t have to fight in this stupid farce-of-a-war and get killed.” The bearded man shouted back, laying a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder._

_“It’s my duty. I’m not going to sit flat on my ass and do nothing while I cower behind my family’s name and money.” He spat, pushing his father out of the way before starting towards the door._

_“This is the work of that goddamn sizzler boy. Ernest, right? You make sure you tell that faggot, inbred degenerate that You’ve worked TOO HARD to become what you are just to throw it away being a human shield in the army.” He stammered, straightening his own collar._

_“What HAVE I been working for? Have you ever asked yourself if this is what I WANT FOR MY LIFE? FOR CHRIST’S SAKE I’M TWENTY ONE AND I’M STILL IN MY PARENT’S HOUSE. I WOULDN’T EVEN CALL THIS LIVING.” Jebediah screamed back, grabbing his packed bag and the folder that his father left on the table._

_“You could actually BE something.” His father whispered, laying a hand on Jebediah’s shoulder. Jebediah recoiled, wrenching his shoulder away from his father’s._

_“What, like YOU? Some DRUNK, WIFE BEATING, COWARDLY PIECE OF SHIT WHO SURVIVES OFF OF INHERITANCE? WHO’S NEVER HAD TO DO A HARD DAYS WORK IN THEIR LIFE? WHY WOULD I AT ALL WANT TO BE ANYTHING LIKE YOU.” He bellowed, walking briskly out the door towards the street._

_His father ran after him, meeting him on the lawn._

_“Get back inside **RIGHT NOW**.” He pointed, bellowing at the top of his lungs._

_“Oh fuck you. I’m doing this.” Jebediah attempted to walk around his father, who grabbed his collar and threw him into the grass, standing over him with his hands balled into meaty fists._

_Jebediah stood up, brushed off his coat, and punched his own father in the face with enough force to crumple his large, boney, wide nose into a pulp._

_“I said i’m doing this.” He walked off into the night._


	3. Giving (and taking) a Beating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whipping is hot ok

The smell of hot alcohol and cigars filled what little clean, untainted air there was in the trenches with the warm, homely smell of a tavern. Classic Conestogan parties. I mean, it was pretty obvious that they were going over the top sometime that week, with the introduction of the new ‘Landships’. Why not have a ‘going away party’ for the people who were likely to die?

Shloger was already well into the depths of alcoholism when he was recruited into the army, and it really only got worse from there. It was a damn sight to behold though. Schlatt uncapped a jerry can and handed it to Shloger, the green container filled to the brim with a grain-based liquor called ‘Barisega’, a gift from way the hell up north. He poured pints of the brown, sickly sweet (yet vomit-inducingly bitter) beverage into tall, rectangular glasses.

God it tasted awful. Comparable to drinking antifreeze.

Schlatt stood back and watched the chaos unfold as Shloger downed an entire glass of the Barisega, grimacing and slamming the container on the table on its side. His opponent downed glass, not nearly as fast, and almost vomited onto the floor. He set the glass down the same way.

They also had the fuel for the tanks, which was a grain-based substance that contained almost 100% alcohol by volume. So naturally, the group of soldiers downed shots of it (Shloger, in particular, downed three of the damned things.)

Shloger powered through the shots, coughing into a napkin afterwards. He set the shots down on their heads, on top of the rectangular glass he drank from earlier. His opponent drank one, vomited, and fell off his chair immediately. Shloger wins again.

He threw his fists into the air, narrowly avoiding punching Lansing in the jaw as he did so, and raked in the wad of cash and jewelry that had been piled onto the table as betting currency. Shloger always won. Davis was at the corner of the tent, drinking a glass of some shitty wine. His eyes were low and dark, blinking rapidly on occasion to evacuate the sweat from his eyelashes.

He slammed down his wine glass, almost breaking it, and walked quickly to where Shloger was standing. He threw a left hook that connected squarely to the side of the taller, significantly drunker man’s face.

Shloger stumbled a bit, sputtering out an ‘oh shit’ between his laughs. He seemed much less drunk now, kicking a clod of mud at Davis before lunging at his waist. Davis and Shloger crashed like projectiles through the dining table. On the floor the pair scrambled to their feet, Shloger slipping on the mud and falling directly into a kick from Davis, who had now grabbed a broken table leg and was swinging at Shloger’s ribs.

Schlatt shot across the room like a dart, sending a punch that landed squarely on Davis’s nose and sent him to the floor immediately. Schlatt was a surprisingly good fighter, for being the ‘rich type’.

Schlatt stuck out a hand, dragging Shloger to his feet and patting him on his back. Shloger laughed the altercation off like a joke and went back to his Barisega. If it wasn’t for the amount of alcohol he consumed, and Schlatt bringing a swift end to the fight, Shloger would have probably collapsed Davis’s jaw. Refer to the ‘bony hands’ line.

“...The hell was that all about?” Shloger yelled over the loud folk music, nursing his jaw with an ice pack.

“Davis thinks you abandoned us. Where he got that idea from is beyond me.” Lansing said between cigar puffs.

“Where’s he now?” Schlatt leaned over and asked Lansing, rubbing his fist gingerly.

“Ran off somewhere, I dunno…” Shloger slurred, wobbling in his seat slightly as he went to grab another large glass of Barisega.

The music, commotion, and partying stopped as a familiar face poked into the tent, his eyes boring into the back of Shloger’s skull.

Shloger didn’t turn around.

“...I’m gonn’ take a gamble here an’ say that In-ger-haln juss’ showed up…” He muttered, setting down his glass slowly.

“You. Commander’s office. Now.” Ingerhaln yelled as Shloger stumbled off of his seat and out of the tent. The rest of the crowd went to hide any evidence that they were drinking.

Ingerhaln pushed Shloger in front of him. “DO WE TRAIN YOU TO DRINK? DO WE TRAIN YOU TO DRINK OUR PRECIOUS FUEL?! I’VE GOT WRIGHT THREE FEET UP MY ASS ON A GOOD DAY, AND I CAN ASSURE YOU THIS ISN’T A GOOD FUCKING DAY.” Ingerhaln whisper-yelled desperately.

Ingerhaln regained his composure, scratching his mustache and squeezing Shloger’s hand. “I like you. You’re a damn fine soldier and an even better engineer. I’ve already talked with Wright and tried to convince him to take it easy on you. Keep quiet and don’t fuck anything up and you’ll come out with a written reprimand, that’s all.”

Shloger said nothing, stumbling his way into the Commander’s office and taking a seat at the desk and cupping his face in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. Curtis-Wright made his way into the room and kicked a chair leg off of the chair Shloger sat in.

“I didn’t give you permission to sit, private.” He spat, chuckling as Shloger scrambled to his feet.

“Two liters of utility-grade grainfuel gone, eight gallons of illegal alcohol. Barisega, right? You sizzlers love drinkin’ that shit.” He said, chuckling again.

“...Fuck did you just call me?” Shloger muttered, his eyebrows lowering over his drunken, wandering eyes that now had a certain, oddly precise glint to them. He hadn’t heard the ethnic slur in a while, but it stung like a wasp.

Wright continued. “Lay down.” He ordered, and Shloger begrudgingly obliged.

Wright planted his boot on Shloger’s face, the mud smearing over his cheek and forehead. He pressed down.

“Lick it. Lick the boot.” Wright said, pressing the mud-covered boot harder onto Shloger’s face.

He could almost hear, just in the back of his head, the meek, pathetic cries of his brother. He could hear the wet slapping. He could hear the muffled screams. It was happening all over again.

He rolled, grabbing Wright’s heel and pulling it out from under him. He sprang to his feet, grabbing Wright’s collar and reeling back.

He threw.

The punch landed on the side of Wright’s face, cracking his eye socket and eliciting a shrill scream.

He would’ve kept punching, but Ingerhaln and Lansing had thrown the door open and dragged him out of the office, kicking and yelling and cursing.

“YOU PIECE OF SHIT, FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING QUILL PUSHING DESK JOCKEY, I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU, I’LL FUCKING DO IT YOU-” His voice trailed off as he was dragged away from Wright, who was now nursing the side of his head, which had now begun to bleed.

\------

Schlatt splashed cold water on his face, shaking himself awake. He wasn’t nearly as bad as Shloger, but his head rang like a damn bell from last night’s festivities. Left hand hurt too. He walked out of his quartet’s tent, raking his hair back between his horns, and throwing on his coat before jogging to the open, muddy, circular area between the canvas structures.

There he was.

Shloger was being dragged out of a hole in the ground, his sullen eyes and limp form showing the effects of what the commander referred to as ‘The Pit’. He was being tied to a log. Two troops stripped away what little clothes he had on, leaving his gray combat trousers but yanking off his boots. His pale, scarred back glinted with sweat and mud.

Wright stepped forward out of the crowd, holding a metal rod and a burlap sack with some kind of rope in it. It was at that point the crowd realized what was on the end of the metal pole. It was a goddamn brand.

“This here…” Wright yelled to the crowd “...Says ‘insubordination’. It’s a long word, so we felt it necessary to make it big enough to be read. And this…” He yelled, waving one arm in the air as he dipped the end of the brand into the fire that was raging inside of an old fuel barrel.

“Is what happens to insubordinate troops.” He said quietly, his one visible eye glinting with a wicked sense of mania. He pressed the brand into Shloger’s back.

The pain came in less like a wave, and more like a speeding train. He could hear the left side of his back cooking, and it smelled scarily similar to fried ham. Wright pressed the brand deeper before retracting it and setting it on the ground, the hot metal tip sizzling on the wet mud.

Shloger screamed. He could feel the hot metal digging into the muscle of his back, the nerves all over his body telling him to give up and die. The flesh bubbled and sizzled, before the heat finally wore off. The wound was red and raised, and it looked worryingly deep.

Then it got worse. Wright removed the whip, which was barbed, from the sack. He leaned in to Shloger’s right ear.

Lansing had to stop himself from rushing to his friend’s aid. Schlatt didn’t stop himself, but Lansing caught his jacket collar before he was able to make a massive mistake and end up on a log like that one himself.

“Count to fifty.”

He swung, the whip connecting with Shloger’s back like a bullet, and the pain was sudden and compounded enough to the point that Shloger let go the contents of his bladder. He screamed again, what was supposed to be a ‘One’ turned into a shrill screech of someone who sounded like their body was being torn in two.

His quartet didn’t continue watching, and they walked back to their post. They could hear his cries faintly behind them as they walked, their heads low and voices silent.

_“...TH-THREE...F-F-FOUR... **F...FUCK** …”_

Schlatt and Lansing made their way back to the position, notably without Davis and just out of earshot from their friend’s cries.

“Give him a week Schlatt, he’ll be back to good ol’ Shloger.” Lansing said flatly, writing notes into a brown leather book.

“Will he?” Schlatt replied wearily.


	4. The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally the chapters are an acceptable length.  
> also this marks the last of the stuff that i have pre-finished so it's gonna be a hot minute before the next chapter is here

It had been at least a week.

The air was heavy, the humidity making up for the drop in temperature from the obscured sun. It was going to rain soon. Shloger gingerly pulled a tank-top over his bandaged, aching body and limped his way to his post. Somehow, he wasn’t demoted.

Shloger’s eyes were pulled into a squint, darting to the unknown new member of his scouting quartet.

“...fuck are you?” he muttered before pinching the bridge of his nose and grimacing. Every movement caused agony like he hadn't felt in a long time.

Ingerhaln hushed the new recruit, standing up and walking over to Shloger.

“I pulled every goddamn string I could to make this as easy as possible for you. Why’d you have to hit him.” It was less of a question and more of a statement.

“...I don’t lick boots, and I definitely don’t lick the boot of a man who’s calling me a goddamn sizzler.” he muttered, causing Ingerhaln to scoff and avert his gaze, rubbing one eye with the bottom of a meaty palm.

“I didn’t know, I’m sorry. How’s, errr, your back?” He asked tentatively.

“...it stings like a sumbitch, but i’ll manage…” Shloger honestly didn’t know if he was going to be able to continue standing without bawling like a child.

Schlatt ran in for a hug, keeping his arms from touching Shloger’s tender back. He reeled back and grabbed his shoulders, then squeezed his cheeks while chuckling, and motioned to the new recruit.

“Knew you’d make it back in one piece. This is Clay, new guy from the eastern front troop transfer that happened yesterday.” He said grinning.

Clay stood and stuck out a hand towards Shloger, shaking vigorously. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Shloger coughed back, groaning his way to a seat next to the mortar shelter.

“A lot of good things, I should add.” Clay laughed dryly.

“We scoured the depths of our minds to find said good things.” Lansing added, chuckling to himself. Banter was a good sign.

“So, Clay, where you come from?” Shloger asked around a cigar.

“Eastern front, got transferred here yesterday.”

“Well I know that, I meant, like, where are you from originally?”

“Oh, yeah… Way east of the township, little mining colony you probably haven’t heard of.” He said quickly.

Schlatt stopped fiddling with his hair, turning around and looking over his shoulder at Clay in a sharp squint, then turned back to fooling with his bag.

“So what’s the deal, we going over the top or what?” Shloger asked the trio.

“We go over the top tomorrow, there’s been a delay in delivery of the fuel.” Lansing said, not turning away from the mounted binoculars.

“Not my fault this time.” He laughed, flipping his helmet over and placing it on his head.

\------

It began to rain.

And I mean rain.

Thunder crashed across the battlefield, and lightning cut it’s way across the dark horizon like gunshots. The storm was here. The four men abandoned the post temporarily, getting into the front of the mortar shelter to get out of the rain.

“So…” Schlatt said slyly, reaching into his backpack.

“No, we aren’t playing poker again.” Lansing said immediately. Schlatt put the cards back in his pack, frowning. He seemed glum now that he couldn’t squeeze the new guy’s wallet out dry.

“Then what the hell are we gonna do to pass the time?” He asked desperately, motioning to his bag and raising his eyebrows over and over.

“Schlatt, big guy, I’m none too sure but I don’t think getting our money snatched away by you is fun no more.” Shloger chuckled, resting a hand on his shoulder.

He rolled his eyes, putting one fist in his hand and sitting there like a child who’s toy got taken away.

\-----

The alert came just as night fell, which happened to be during a massive thunderstorm. It was time to go over the top. The four-man team loaded their rifles, affixed their bayonets, adjusted their sights, and leapt over the ridge, running to get on the back of a gun carrier.

The enormous metal beast carried the four men with ease, cruising towards the front lines through the mud and rain and pummeling through anti-artillery trenches like they weren’t there. It was less than pleasant for the four people sitting on the engine deck.

“What’re the odds of us gettin’ struck by lightning?” Shloger yelled over the noise of the massive eight-cylinder engine.

“They’d be lower if you’d stop pointing your fucking bayonet towards the sky like a lightning rod.” Clay yelled back, stepping away from the commander’s cupola.

“We make contact in five.” He shouted at the other three men, carefully sitting down as to not fall off of the wobbling, thirty-plus ton landship.

Up ahead, flashes of bright yellow light could be seen, and massive explosions would follow. T1-3 “The Duck” had made contact with the enemy troops, and seemed to be getting the better of it.

The gun carrier passed the stalled-out T1-6, the rear portion of which was engulfed in flames from a burst hydraulic line. “H-HOW ARE YOU ON FIRE?!” Schlatt practically screamed, cackling like a maniac as he pointed at the disgruntled crew of the T1-6.

Shloger grabbed a large, rectangular case that held a mobile radio, and the four dismounted from the tank and began to run alongside it. They jumped into a nearby artillery crater and aimed their rifles in seperate directions. A shot rang out, Lansing cocked his rifle and an empty, smoking shell dropped into the muck below them. Another shot, this one from Clay, whizzed into an enemy machine gun nest, killing it’s operator. The spent shell wouldn’t eject from the gun however, so Clay was now unarmed.

“You see that machine gun nest you just disabled? I’m gonna run up to that and see if I can slow down the advance. Command just radio’d that T1-4 and T1-5 are gonna back us up.” Schlatt yelled over the unmistakable sound of hot, loud, deadly battle.

“I’ll cover you.” Shloger yelled back, jamming his service knife into Clay’s rifle breech to dislodge the spent shell. Once it clattered to the ground, the pair went to the rim of the crater.

“You two better cover y’alls asses, we’re gonna mount the machine gun up yonder.” Shloger bellowed towards Lansing and Clay.

The pair hunkered down, counted to three, and…

...they looked at each other for a moment. Not in a gay way, more of a communicative way. Shloger nodded to Schlatt.

They rushed the machine gun nest.

Shloger launched over the sandbags, grabbing hold of an ammo crate and connecting the end of the belt to the breach of the automatic weapon. Schlatt cocked the machine gun and swung it around to face the enemy.

“How do you like the taste of your own machine gun you fucks-” He muttered, opening fire on another enemy machine gun nest before turning to the small concrete fortification that was up on the ridge.

Suddenly, Schlatt faltered. He began coughing into his elbow violently. Shloger handed him a gas mask from the machine gunner’s corpse, and took over for Schlatt. The gas was rolling in. The radio went from yelling, to coughing, to screaming as the toxic gas began to take it’s effect on the tank crews. T1-1, T1-3 and the E6 went completely silent after around thirty seconds.

Schlatt could hear the Major’s words bouncing around inside his head.

_“This here…” Lansing said before turning to Davis and tossing him the cartridge “...Is Zeifinshenk. It’s a noxious gas that can kill a man in under a minute. It’s tasteless, smells like powder smoke, and invisible to the naked eye.”_

_“It kills via concentration in the lungs, as the human body doesn’t process the gas like air, and it eventually condenses as a chemical that ignites upon contact with a certain compound within the mucus that lines your lungs. It burns it’s way out in every direction like acid.”_

Shloger’s vision was getting narrow and red, no sane man held his breath for that long while using that much oxygen. Then again, this is Shloger we’re talking about. Clay and Lansing rushed the same machine gun nest, supplying Shloger with a much-needed gas mask.

Clay yelled through his own mask. “Why haven’t the tank crews put on their masks yet?”

Lansing didn’t look at him. “Tank crews weren’t supplied with gas masks.” He stood, aiming his rifle at the brushline to their left and taking a shot. A scream was heard as the bullet tore through someone’s neck.

Schlatt looked through a spyglass, barely being able to see the outline of one of the tanks through the fog. There it was. T1-3.

“T1-3 is sitting about a hundred-odd yards at bearing 210. If we can get in there, we could tear through these casemate bunkers like wet paper.” Schlatt elbowed Shloger, who began firing at the enemy troops climbing on top of the enormous machine. He lifted the machine gun off of it’s mount, dumped the rifle out of his pack, and dropped the heavy, cumbersome machine gun into it.

“Cover me, I’m gonna mount this on the commander’s gunpost and make sure it’s clear.” Shloger said, taking off his mask for a moment. He sat awkwardly, staring at Schlatt. He kissed the front of Schlatt’s mask, and then broke out running.

The air burned in his lungs, happily it wasn’t the gas, it was just his mediocre stamina. He lunged at the ladder on the side of the massive metal beast and climbed atop the engine deck, then climbed his way up to the commander’s gunpost. He mounted the machine gun and began eviscerating the incoming troops. Buying some time, he dropped into the inside of the tank and checked to see that everything was in order. He pushed the former crew, now dead, into the empty 4th shell rack and cranked the heaving, enormous V8 to life.

He signalled his fellow men to come to the tank, and they reached it.

“We’ve got a problem.” Lansing bellowed over the sounds of artillery fire.

“The track’s ain’t connected on the left hand side, yeah yeah I get it. The E6 is in front of this thing about twenty feet. Grab me the goddamn… the uhh… the trackjack! That’s what it’s called” Shloger exclaimed, nursing the poorly-calibrated, poorly balanced powerplant.

Clay and Schlatt opted to go get the jack, while Lansing covered them with the machine gun.

Schlatt scoured the side of the massive E6 for the jack, grabbing it and heaving the hunk of metal towards the back of the T1-3, where the track pin had come out.

“I know Shloger and Lansing buy your bullshit spiel about your little eastern mining town, but I fucking don’t.” Schlatt yelled over the thunder and gunfire. “After we get out of this shit, you’re gonna tell us what you’ve been hiding.” He pointed an accusing finger at Clay.

“If we get out of this shit. Shloger’s got to be out of his mind if he thinks he’s gonna be able to jack this thing up.” Clay retorted “And don’t act like I have something to hide, Jebidiah, I know all of your family’s dirty little secrets.”

Schlatt recoiled slightly, he hadn’t heard his first name in a very long time. “I’m fully aware of my family’s wrongdoings, and I’m very open about them. Part of the reason why i’m here is to maybe restore some semblance of honor to its name.”

The two set down the jack next to Shloger, who was sifting through a vast toolbag in an attempt to find a track pin. “Schlatt, i’m gonna need your help to jack this thing up. This jack’s meant for a ten-ton vehicle, not a thirty ton vehicle. Clay, take these pullers and pull as hard as you can.” He motioned to the device that was crudely connected to the two disconnected sections of track.

Schlatt jammed the jack under the rear suspension mount, then assisted Shloger in cranking it up, and it was just as hard as you’d imagine. Even with the extremely low gear ratio of the jack, the extreme weight of the tank made the two-man job an impossible one for the average soldiers. These, however, weren’t average soldiers.

Shloger’s muscles bulged as he heaved as hard as he could, Schlatt’s doing the same under his coat.

Clay pulled as hard as he could, the tracks coming into alignment.

Schlatt let go, leaving Shloger to hold the jack in place while he replaced the track pin. Shloger pushed with all his might to keep the crank from turning while the weight of the beast began to physically crush the jack.

There was a plink, a rending of metal, and a crunch as the jack was crushed under the thirty-ton landship.

The pin was in.

The trio scrambled back into the tank.

Lansing unloaded a spent shell, throwing the casing out of the roof hatch. Clay loaded a fresh High-Explosive shell into the breach, and signalled Schlatt, who was operating the gun itself, that it was ready. Shloger got into the driver’s position, and eased the enormous vehicle into gear and angled it towards the first fortification.

Show time.

There was a thunderous explosion above him as Lansing fired that three-inch gun, the tank lurching back slightly from the recoil. There was a slight delay before the concrete bunker turned into a fiery mess of shrapnel. Shloger propelled the enormous vehicle straight through an enemy trench, squashing a mounted machine gun and the enemy soldiers operating it.

The crew could hear bullets plinking off of the thick armor of the vessel, it was like a thousand angry bees stinging a whale. Except that whale was metal and had a gun the size of a filing cabinet.

“ENGAGE RIGHT.” Lansing yelled as a black, rectangular object lurched into view. It was an enemy ZT3 tank.

_“The ‘Zeghetre Zt3’, as they’re named by their operators, is truly a terrifying sight for infantry. It’s armament is no less than six semi-automatic 25mm armor-piercing cannons that can aim independently of one-another and shred through infantry and light fortifications in seconds.”_

_“If you ever encounter a Zt3, kiss your sorry ass goodbye and pray for a swift death. Nothing can stop those 100 caliber rounds.” Ingerhaln explained._

Schlatt fired an anti-concrete round, the only shell with any anti-armor capabilities, at the Zt3. It punched clean through the right-side sponson and detonated an ammunition rack, blowing the enemy tank apart like a massive, fiery grenade. An enemy howitzer was in view, launching an explosive shrapnel shell towards the T1-3 and missed by a scarily short margin. Clay shoved another shell, this one a regular High-Explosive round, into the breach, and Schlatt fired it.

The howitzer was down, now a mess of bent metal and fire and the viscera of it’s former operators. Schlatt signalled for another anti-concrete round as he saw an enemy armored brigade roll into view.

Shloger took a hard left, angling the tank to increase it’s armor’s effectiveness, and scampered away from the front-centered driver’s position. Schlatt engaged an enemy half-track, turning it into rubble in an instant. Once another shell was loaded, he aimed at a Zt9 and fired.

_“The Zt9 is essentially an up-armored Zt3 with only two guns and a more powerful compression engine instead of a steam one. Armed with two four-inch short howitzers for dealing with fortifications. Hit the driver’s hatch on the front as it is only 25mm thick.” Ingerhaln pointed to the vehicle with a long, metal pole._

Schlatt shot directly through the driver’s hatch, stopping the tank in it’s tracks. The round had over-penetrated and didn’t detonate within the vehicle.

There was an enormous explosion and the unmistakable sound of shrapnel as the Zt9 fired at the T1-3’s turret. Bits of metal, rivets, electrical wiring, and cotton insulation filled the inside of the turret for one terrifying moment. The inside of the turret was a mess of fire, electrical sparks and blood. The commander’s position now sat empty, as Lansing’s now-limp form slid down the rear turret wall.

“No...No no no no no no no…” Schlatt mumbled, still in shock from the incident and not noticing the small bits of metal sticking out of his thigh.

“Man the gun you sappy piece of shit, i’ll be fine.” Lansing whispered, groaning and coughing as he rolled over and yelled down to the hull.

“Shlo...ger…need...help…” He cried, blood seeping out of the side of his mouth.

There was a tremendous explosion as the Zt9 burst into flames, knocking out the half-track that tried to go around it. Schlatt was tearing through the enemy vehicles like nothing. Shloger dragged Lansing down to the ammunition bay, laying him on his back and struggling to stop the bleeding. He was an engineer, not a medic.

There was another explosion, this one closer, as an enemy half-track fired it’s cannon at the side of the T1. The engine then turned into a massive, cast-iron anchor as an armor-piercing shell went straight through one side of the block.

Schlatt dealt with the gun-truck, that being the last of the enemy vehicles for the time being, the situation was less than ideal however.

Clay was manning the gun by himself, while Shloger and Schlatt tended to Lansing’s wounds. His entire torso caught most of the shrapnel like a sponge, ripping holes open in his chest and stomach. Schlatt was doing his best to pry out the fragments of what was once the commander’s cupola out of his abdomen without causing Lansing too much pain, and it wasn’t really working.

“Schlatt, if we keep yankin’ out bits a’ metal he’s gonna bleed out.” Shloger muttered, raising his voice over the sounds of the three-inch gun going off overhead.

“Schlatt.” Shloger said again, looking over at his comrade, who’s forearms were now covered in blood.

“Schlatt.” Lansing sputtered, grabbing the front of his coat and dragging him towards his bloody, stoic face.

“Leave me here. I-I’ve got my service pistol. It’s t-time for me to go.” He managed, reaching gingerly into his coat pocket and drawing a small .32 flintlock pistol, gripping it as hard as he could.

“No. No we’re not leaving you here. Not today.” Schlatt stammered, his head swinging back and forth in an animalistic mixture of shock and fear that swept across his body and made him shiver.

“Go… Once t-the cavalry overruns this posi...tion i’ll shoot the ammo r-rack. V-viking’s burial.” he spat, more blood flowing from his mouth as he chuckled to himself. He held Schlatt close.

“You’re a good man, Jebediah, now get out of here. You too Ernest.” He pointed at Shloger, who’s eyes were welling up with tears.

“I don’t want you to go.” Schlatt whispered, tears streaking down his face and catching themselves on the bottom of his chin, mixing with the sweat and soot.

“GO. NOW.” Lansing bellowed, causing Schlatt to jump slightly as the gray-haired man sat up with a painful, exhausted groan. Shloger had to practically rip Schlatt away from where he was.

“We gotta go man, this thang’s gonna go up like a bomb.” Shloger yelled, following Schlatt up the ladder into the turret.

“Clay, we gotta get outta here. Lansing’s gonna blow this thang to high hell.” Shloger re-stated the situation to Clay, who quickly scrambled out of the top of the tank and ran off of the engine deck, making his way into a nearby ditch.

Schlatt and Shloger followed in his tracks, Shloger supporting Schlatt’s side as he limped towards the drainage ditch.

“We gotta go back for him.” Schlatt cried, turning around. He was met with dozens of enemy troops staring him down from beyond the other side of the wrecked tank.

“Holy shit.” He muttered to himself before Shloger tackled him into the ditch.

There was a quiet, sharp bang, as a bullet tore into Shloger’s shoulder, lodging itself in his upper back and sending a small plume of blood overhead as the pair fell, entangled, into the ditch. Then there was another small bang. There was a split second before the ensuing chaos when one could hear laughing coming from the hull.

All of the propellant and fuel went up in hot, sparking flames which cooked the inside of the tank, reaching the ammunition racks in an instant. For a brief moment nothing happened.

Then everything exploded.

The hull of T1-3 was basically turned into a thirty-ton shrapnel bomb, sending fiery chunks of steel, wood and copper flying in every direction at a speed almost incomprehensible to the human mind. The enemy infantry brigade was decimated, most of the nearby troops being decimated by the initial blast while the rest were cut down by flying shrapnel.

It was almost beautiful, in a way. The angry ball of fire encompassing what little was left of the chassis, the circular ring of corpses and shrapnel where they’d been propelled by the blast, and how the chaotic scene reflected off of Schlatt’s eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! There's gonna be a lot more, trust me. Special thanks to Yarking for accidentally curing my writers block with an angsty Technoblade fic.
> 
> Some chapters are gonna be a bit short, sorry about that.


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